Emerging from the half-elf's dwelling, Michael returned to his own modest shack and glanced at the sky. The sun hung high, marking the time for the midday meal. A country boy at heart, tempered by years of fending for himself in the concrete jungles of his old world, Michael's present laziness belied a fundamental competence. He could, when motivated, cook rather well.
Soon, the familiar, comforting sizzle of oil filled the small space, followed by the rich, savory aroma of scrambled eggs with tomatoes, the pungent kick of stir-fried pork with green peppers, and the simple, clean scent of wilted lettuce. A pot of seaweed and egg drop soup bubbled gently on a makeshift stove, its steam mingling with the fragrance from a large basin of perfectly steamed white rice. This, a simple feast by his old standards, was his lunch. Thank whatever gods are still listening,he thought. This time, he'd remembered to bring fresh meat and vegetables across the void. No more culinary abominations like "spicy noodle stir-fried lizard eggs" or "lizard egg fried rice" would plague his palate today.
The art of this "Eastern" cooking, however, was utterly lost on the settlement's designated cook, a formidable woman whose culinary repertoire began and ended with gruel and charred meat. For now, Michael was chef, tutor, and reluctant pioneer of gastronomy. He noticed, not for the first time, that Lynda and the fox-eared girl, Faye, always seemed to find reasons to linger nearby whenever he cooked, their eyes keenly observing his every move. A few more lessons, and he trusted they could manage the basics.
The absence of a refrigerator, yet another forgotten luxury, was a nagging annoyance. For now, the newly-dug deep wells sufficed. The deepest, plunging nearly two hundred meters into the earth, held water just a few degrees above freezing. A basket of provisions lowered into that subterranean chill on a rope could last for days without spoiling, a crude but effective larder.
Was it the profound satisfaction of a proper meal in this desolate place, or the quiet triumph of having secured the services of the Richard—a useful, if cunning, asset—that made the food taste so good? Michael couldn't say. He simply ate with a voracious appetite that would have shocked his former self, polishing off at least three pounds of rice and every last morsel of the accompanying dishes.
Watching Lynda clear the simple wooden bowls, her movements efficient and strangely graceful, Michael considered the remaining stock of fresh food. "From now on," he announced, picking a stray grain of rice from his teeth, "you and the other attendants may add one such stir-fried dish to your own rations at each meal."
The wolf-girl's amber eyes, usually so guarded, instantly ignited. The other dishes were fine, truly, but that plate of vibrant, emerald-green lettuce… in a world bleached of color, where green was a memory as much as a sight, it held a hypnotic, almost sinful allure. She was privately convinced she could devour a mountain of the crisp leaves raw, savoring their vitality.
Impulsively, overwhelmed by the promise of regular greens, she darted forward, threw her arms around Michael's neck, and planted a firm, smacking kiss on his cheek. The unexpected warmth and the bold imprint of her lips left him momentarily stunned. In that simple, unguarded gesture, the harshness of the Wasteland seemed to recede. Life here held its own strange, burgeoning charm.
"Oh, and later," he added, a faint, unconscious smile touching his lips, "remember to send some of the fresh produce to Richard's family. Tell them it's a gift for the little girl, Annie." As he spoke, picking at his teeth with a sliver of wood, he missed the peculiar, appraising look Lynda shot him—a look that held a flicker of surprise, a dash of reassessment, and a silent, amused thought: Master… I would not have guessed your… preferences leaned towards the elven… and the very young.
…
By the time Michael awoke from a deep, two-hour afternoon nap—gently coaxed into slumber by Faye's diligent fanning—a pang of guilt struck him. He, the great Lord and Administrator, had returned without so much as checking on his wounded men. Some leader he was.
To assuage this sudden attack of conscience, the notoriously thrifty Michael performed an uncharacteristic act of largesse. Summoning Lynda and Faye as his attendants, he ascended to the second floor, which served as a makeshift infirmary.
Soon, the voice of Lord Harry Potter, dripping with theatrical concern and boisterous goodwill, echoed off the rough-hewn walls.
"Zach, my boy! Looking fighting fit already! Here, a generous packet of spicy strips—build that strength back up!"
"Old Gimpy! The asymmetrical look suits you, gives you character! Recover swiftly, there's work to be done. I hereby grant you official dispensation to use your station to… befriend a widow. For your health, a can of golden peaches!"
"Fear not, my brave warriors! Rest and mend. Your futures are secure in my hands! And remember, a pack of crispy noodles for each of you—excellent, fortifying sustenance!"
With each grand pronouncement, the attendant girls, playing their roles as living gift-bearers with solemn grace, would deliver the specified items into the grateful, if sometimes bewildered, hands of the convalescents. The tour concluded with mutual, if performative, satisfaction. The atmosphere was one of robust camaraderie and benevolent paternalism.
The trouble began, as it often did, with a moment of careless, formulaic generosity. As Michael turned to leave, he fell into the habitual script of a superior offering a hollow courtesy. "Does anyone have any otherrequests?" he boomed, arms spread magnanimously. "Speak boldly! Your Lord shall see it done, if it is within his power!"
In his experience, this was mere ritual. The underlings were supposed to bow gratefully and murmur assurances that all their needs were met. He had, however, profoundly underestimated either the brutal honesty or the sheer, unvarnished pragmatism of the Wasteland native.
Before the echoes of his offer had faded, a voice, loud and clear, rang out. "Lord! The 'Pile Ointment' you provided works miracles! A true blessing! But… the paper in the shacks… it ran out days ago. It has not been replaced. Using a stick is… a painful and uncertain business. Could we have a guaranteed supply?"
Initially, Michael dismissed it as trivial. He opened his mouth to grant the simple request. Then, he felt a sharp, urgent tug on the hem of his shirt. Faye, her vulpine ears twitching nervously, was giving him a wide-eyed, warning look. He promptly closed his mouth.
Her whisper was a frantic hiss in his ear. "Master, you mustn't promise that! They are… profligate! A single roll vanishes in under two hours! They use it for everything—wiping hands, cleaning tools, I even saw one trying to make a hat! It's a bottomless pit!"
Michael drew in a sharp breath. The cost was meaningless. The bulk was catastrophic. The precious cargo space in his truck, devoured by bales of this soft, absorbent miracle, was space denied to batteries, tools, seeds, or medicine.
Drawing himself up to his full height, Michael adopted the grave, instructive tone of a sage imparting ancient wisdom. "My friends, my brave comrades, attend! The act of cleansing oneself is an ancient art, one that does not requirethe crutch of processed paper. I possess knowledge from before the Great War, from a distant and mysterious land. A people known as the 'Third Brothers' perfected a most… hydraulic… and resource-efficient methodology…"
It took a masterful performance, a blend of fabricated anthropology, pseudo-scientific reasoning, and sheer, unwavering authority, to convince the men that his interdimensional hauling capacity was a sacred trust, not to be squandered on such fleeting comforts. He finally extricated himself, feeling as though he'd just negotiated a treaty.
His hard-won peace was shattered moments later. A guard from the prisoner detail burst in, his face smeared with dust and concern. "Lord! The captives… they're growing restless! A strange agitation has taken them. The lash does not calm them. Captain Onil bids you come at once!"
Fury, hot and immediate, surged through Michael. So, the prisoners dared to stir up trouble? Was the heavy labor he'd designed for their atonement too much? Were the two daily servings of slop and the brackish well water too harsh? Were these grounds for rebellion?
Pistol slapped against his hip, he strode out towards the worksite beyond the palisade, the "merciful" afternoon sun beating down on him with palpable malice.
The scene that greeted him, however, was not one of incipient revolt, but of grotesque, contented feasting. Rows of prisoners squatted in the dust, each clutching a battered bowl, consuming their… meal… with sounds of deep appreciation.
Then, a porcine-faced prisoner let out a squeal of pure, unadulterated joy. "Behold! Look! In my stew! A strand of meat! A grand, magnificent strand! I shall save half for my supper tonight!"
The declaration gave Michael pause. His shock was not at the prisoner's joy, but at the implication that the notoriously miserly Auntie Fatty had let a "grand strand" of meat escape into the slop buckets. He squinted at the proclaimed treasure.
Thatwas a "grand strand"? It was a sliver, a pale, lonely filament the size of a matchstick.
Ah,he thought, a wry smile touching his lips. There's the woman I know.
The pig-man's triumph was immediately challenged. A canine-faced prisoner waved a bone, his voice thick with pride. "That pathetic thread? Look! A bone! A lordly bone, with marrow yet within!" He brandished what was unmistakably a chicken leg bone, stripped cleaner than any scavenger's hope.
The scene was one of bizarre, cut-throat competition over scraps, not rebellion. Puzzled, and wondering if Onil had lost his mind, Michael saw the man himself approaching. The big warrior's face was a landscape of profound, personal grievance.
His first words clarified everything. "Lord," Onil said, his voice heavy with a confusing mixture of respect and deep-seated envy, "your mercy… it is a boundless ocean. But must it extend to such… luxuryfor these criminals? Their fare puts our own to shame. Perhaps… a trade? Our rations for theirs?"
"Absolutely not," Michael snapped, the words tasting of the lie he had to maintain. He turned and strode away before his expression could crack. Tell them it was garbage, the dregs from a greasy spoon? Impossible. Their reality, shaped by relentless scarcity, could not conceive of a world so decadently abundant that edible food was simply thrown away. The truth would break their minds, or worse, shatter the fragile economy of gratitude and fear upon which his rule was built.